


The End of the Line

by mag_lex



Series: Commuter!AU [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, One Night Stand, One Shot, especially the Northern line, it has all the best stops, listen i'm a sucker for the London underground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25309024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mag_lex/pseuds/mag_lex
Summary: It was a fairly predictable Friday night in London. Almost pedestrian, really, until Yaz encounters a familiar face on the journey home.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: Commuter!AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916845
Comments: 44
Kudos: 169





	The End of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Way back at the end of last year, before I got stuck into Own Goal, I was contemplating a multichapter commuter au. Instead I distilled it down to one chapter - and here it is! This is set before the night tube was a thing and it's been a few months since I've taken the tube but I love it so apologies for the geekery. Also the story about Embankment is true and one of my favourite stories about the Underground <3
> 
> I'm pretty sure this could be rated M but I've labelled it E just to be on the safe side!

"Shit."

Yaz gasps for breath and regrets her choice of footwear for the umpteenth time that evening when the doors slide shut, just out of reach. She'd barely made it onto the platform as it was after a precarious journey down the escalators, squeezing past bundles of merry travellers who forgot to stand to the right and who instead decided to obstruct her path. 

Still, she was nothing but polite - her mum would be mortified by what passes for manners in London - and asked for them all to excuse her as she barrelled down the moving steps on her heels. Half of them are tourists and completely oblivious to the odd customs of the underground, but Yaz has lived in the city long enough to move instinctively through the maze of tunnels under the streets. She knows the shortcuts, which exits lead to steps and which lead to lifts, and she knows that Embankment tube station at this time on a Friday night is, without fail, busy. She's left it a little late though, later than she normally would, and she hopes she's not missed her ride home.

A drunk man inside the departing carriage points and laughs at her. Yaz rolls her eyes at him, then looks down the half-empty platform, a prayer on her lips. 

_Please let there be another train._

It's not entirely her fault that she's cutting it fine, regardless of the tourists; Martha had dragged her along to work drinks after Yaz had run out of excuses. Yaz wouldn't admit it aloud but it had been fun, kind of, but now the arches of her feet are aching something awful and Yaz wishes she'd brought a pair of flats to change into. Maybe she'd have made the train if she'd been able to move just that bit quicker. 

Or not stopped to check her phone. Yaz knew at the time it was a risky strategy but, given that she'd have no signal for the next 30 minutes, it was a crucial juncture at which to check her messages and she hadn't been able to look at it all evening.

The text from Sonya had been a surprise. 

_Going to Harry's for the weekend. Out of milk, soz. See ya Sunday!_

Yaz had slowed to read it properly and the unexpected surprise of her sister's departure caused her to dally just long enough, it transpired, to miss the train. But to her immense relief, there is one more train on the board. The last train of the night. 

_That was far too close._

Now she is heading back to an empty flat, which should probably sadden her but it's such a rare occurrence that Yaz feels a flicker of delight before her sister's successful relationship reminds her that she is very much single and without prospects, romantic or otherwise.

 _Stop thinking like that,_ she chides herself. It's easy to slip into old habits after a tiring day.

Instead, she breathes a sigh of relief and debates sitting on one of the benches lining the platform. She reconsiders when the only one with space is otherwise occupied by an amorous couple who seem drunk either on alcohol or each other. Either way, Yaz would be a third wheel. It's not like she has to wait long but her feet really are killing. Instead, Yaz fills the next 8 minutes by reading the posters lining the walls in a last-ditch attempt at distraction.

She's seen them all several times before: adverts for exhibitions, for plays, for films, for music, for every kind of consumable entertainment there is to offer. She looks at them but she doesn't really read them, too tired to contemplate whether she would, actually, like to see an exhibition about whales at the Natural History Museum. The last time she went it had been full of kids, anyway. Besides, rent swallows up most of her salary and tickets are extortionate. The prospect is always enticing, if out of reach. 

The squealing of rails and the reassuring glow of encroaching lights in the tunnel signals the arrival of her transportation home. Yaz hopes the train won't be too busy but she can already feel people crowding her on the platform, hovering too close to the yellow line for comfort. But Yaz knows just where to stand to get on first and is delighted when the doors open in front of her. She squeezes on and grabs a seat. That's all she needs. Her feet thank her once she takes the pressure off them and Yaz watches as the final passengers embark, dotting themselves around the carriage at socially acceptable distances. 

There aren't too many drunks tonight and Yaz opts to finish off her podcast from that morning. She is alert but as the train starts to move she lets herself relax and tune out the chatter from the other passengers.

Leicester Square comes and goes, bringing with it several different groups of people: office workers who seem to have left for home several hours ago via the bars of Chinatown and Soho, a hen party who are singing something at full volume that Yaz vaguely recognises over the chatter in her ears, and last but not least the tourists who look bemused and slightly confused by the chaos. 

She scans her environment every now and again, but otherwise Yaz stares at the ads mindlessly, trying not to let her gaze land on anybody for too long. The windows just show black, which makes for a very boring view. But looking at other passengers is not the done thing; on the tube, pretty much everyone turns a blind eye. Eye contact is a no-no, and conversation with and between strangers is rare. 

Yaz always thought it odd that on one of the busiest lines, on the most cramped method of transport in the entirety of London, that people are so willing and able to buy into the illusion of personal space, so capable of ignoring the very real prospect of being pressed up into someone's sweaty armpit. The reality is possibly a bit too depressing to acknowledge.

Yaz shudders. She doesn't mind the tube in autumn - it's one of the warmer ways of getting around - but in the summer it's borderline unbearable. Although her commute is long, she knows it could be so much worse if she had to try and squeeze on anywhere in between. So she sits, and lets herself be conveyed through a city she barely understands, complicit somehow in the day-to-day running of the machine. It makes her feel small, and the tube suddenly feels claustrophobic.

Friendly voices in her ear help sustain the bubble and the illusion. But she's stopped paying attention to them. Instead, Yaz finds her mind wandering again and considers why she came to London in the first place. Martha had helped her get the job, and Sonya was already living here - but there's something unattainable about the city, something that Yaz is waiting to tap into. She loves London deep down, she knows she does, despite herself, but on nights like this she wonders why. Something about it is always just out of reach. Perhaps it's a state of mind. 

She senses movement to her left as the train pulls in at Euston and the man next to her departs - thank god, the manspreading was starting to get on her nerves - then there is the usual changeover as people disperse and scatter to the next step of their journey. To Yaz, it's always seemed a little wistful - fleeting glimpses of people she'll never see again, on journeys of their own to fulfil a purpose of which Yaz has no clue. She wonders if they look at her and try to guess what she is doing. She wishes she knew herself, sometimes.

Someone sits next to her, pulling her from her thoughts, and Yaz gives them a cursory glance out of habit. She does a double take when she sees who it is. 

There's a woman sitting next to her, which in itself is not odd. Indeed, after being seated next to the man with zero regard for personal space for several stops, Yaz is relieved because women on the tube seem to be far more aware and respectful of their fellow passengers. 

No. What's odd is that Yaz has seen this woman before. Several times, in fact, but always from afar and never at this time or place.

This particular woman gets on Yaz’s train most mornings when they pull in at Camden. Yaz realises it's a little creepy to have such encyclopaedic knowledge of a stranger's routine but this stranger is memorable, for several reasons.

Yaz has considered, previously, that this woman - the woman with the short blonde hair and the rainbow stripe across her T-shirt - must follow a routine. That she must wake up and have breakfast and leave the house at the same time most days, because she gets the same train - indeed, the very same carriage - that Yaz does nearly every morning. And given that trains pass through every two to three minutes, Yaz had started to notice a pattern before too long. It's not like she has a huge amount else to contemplate while they are being shuttled underground. No doubt other people also have a routine and no doubt Yaz also gets the train with several of the same people every morning, but she doesn't find them as noticeable. For a start, they don't dress as eclectically as the woman sitting next to her; most of them are clothed in various shades of grey office wear, which is pretty unremarkable. This woman sticks out like a sore thumb.

Yaz has to assume that this woman is also tied into a job that pulls her across town each and every morning, because nobody in their right mind would try and get on the Northern line during rush hour for fun. 

And she's gorgeous. Yaz finds herself a little breathless when she looks into her face and finds the woman looking directly at her, almost brazenly. When Yaz discovered she was waiting for the woman to board at Camden every morning, she had to make a conscious effort not to stare at her. But it wasn't like there was much else to look at, just the same adverts for mattresses and probiotics. This woman was far more interesting.

The woman in question now waves at Yaz.

Yaz pulls the earphones from her ears, trying to ignore the noise of the carriage as it finally filters through.

"Hey. I know you. Well. I don't, but I see you all the time. And you helped me, once. I never said thank you."

Yaz is stumped. 

"You woke me up that time," the woman supplies, looking sheepish, and a lightbulb goes off. 

One evening several weeks ago, Yaz had found herself on the same train as this woman, which was a rarity. She only ever saw her in the mornings; what she did once they parted ways at Embankment at 8.34 was a mystery to Yaz.

She had fallen asleep clutching her bag. Yaz had seen it happen to commuters on the tube several times before and would think nothing of it except for the fact that this woman was about to miss her stop. It was late, and Yaz doubted there would be many trains running afterwards. She'd been bold and opted to wake her, in the process spying the name on the badge dangling from her neck.

_Dr Remy S-_

The surname had been obscured but there was enough information to fill in some gaps, given that she knew next to nothing about this woman. Yaz wondered what she was a doctor of - she certainly didn't dress like one, and Yaz couldn't picture her in a white coat - but the train was starting to slow and they were running out of time. 

She'd nudged the sleeping woman abruptly enough to rouse her successfully on the first attempt.

"Ah! Oh!" the woman gasped, eyes wide. She was utterly confused and Yaz wondered if she should have gone about things a bit more gently, but the doors were starting to open.

"Who woke me up? I'm not ready." She glanced around, then at Yaz, who was pointing at the doors urgently. 

"Hey, I think this is your stop."

The woman got to her feet when she saw the sign on the platform. 

"Oh? Blimey. Thank you!" she'd exclaimed, only just making it out of the doors before they closed on her. Yaz saw her standing on the platform, dazed and bewildered, as the train departed and carried her home. The interaction had been brief but informative, not least because her accent completely threw Yaz for a loop. In her head, she'd made up a persona for this woman and the last thing she'd expected was a Yorkshire accent like her own. It seemed to sit at odds with the way she dressed but after a split second Yaz realised several of her presumptions were probably wrong. 

At first, Yaz had pegged this woman as an artist of some kind. Her clothes suggested that she marched to the beat of her own drum, added to the fact that she apparently lived in Camden, which was a hub for all sorts of alternative lifestyles. Most mornings, Yaz would see her engrossed with writing or sketching in a notepad. They were always a little too far apart for her to see what the woman was drawing but her focus was clear to see and Yaz imagined whatever she was creating was pretty spectacular if she devoted such attention and energy to it. 

The rainbows that adorned her clothes at first made Yaz wonder if she was gay but after a while, when it became apparent that she wore them pretty much every day, Yaz wondered if she just liked the colours. Still, Yaz harboured a secret hope that this woman was at least a little gay because she was, by far, the most attractive person Yaz had seen in a long time. They hadn't even talked but Yaz was captivated by her energy. She seemed different to everybody else on the train.

The woman who had intrigued Yaz so much is currently far closer than she’s ever been before, and apparently keen to interact. She waits for Yaz to speak, intelligent eyes twinkling. Yaz wonders how long she's been silent, tangled in her own thoughts. She has a tendency to think too much on the tube.

 _Say something_. 

"You're welcome," she smiles, flustered and slightly taken aback with how forward Remy is being. Back home it would be normal to approach a stranger and strike up a conversation like this, but down south it’s almost unheard of. 

"Oh! Another northerner. I'm Remy," Remy grins, before sticking out her hand for Yaz to shake. The gesture takes Yaz by surprise - she never shakes hands with people on the tube, nor introduces herself by name to them, but it’s the polite thing to do. Her mum would approve. So Yaz takes Remy’s hand and shakes it, not wanting to admit that she already knew her name. She completely forgets to introduce herself until several long seconds pass. 

"Yaz. I'm Yaz. Yasmin Khan. Yaz to my friends," she blurts, finally letting Remy have her hand back now that they've exchanged essential information. She mentally kicks herself at how awkward she's being and wonders why she told a stranger her full name. Yaz has never been good at keeping secrets and it feels like she has been, by virtue of the fact that she already seems to know far more about Remy than Remy knows about her. Offering up her full name seems like an attempt to redress the balance.

"Well hello, Yasmin Khan," Remy smiles. "It's nice to put a name to the face."

"Oh?"

"Well yes, you saved me an expensive taxi home, that night."

Yaz deflates. She'd hoped Remy had recognised her from before then. Apparently not. Then again, it's not like Yaz really stands out from the other commuters. 

"And I've seen you before, too," Remy adds, bluntly. Yaz feels her disappointment ebb away. “I’ve been meaning to say thanks for a while but it’s not easy to get through to people on here,” she gestures to the busy carriage but Yaz knows she’s probably also referring to the mental walls that people in London tend to erect around themselves just to get through the day. The commute home is a rare opportunity for some peace and quiet.

“Plus I never know if people actually want to talk,” she continues, as if she’d read Yaz’s mind. She glances at Yaz’s earphones, which Yaz is still holding in her lap. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, though! I don’t want to keep you from…”

She lets the sentence trail off, clearly intrigued by what Yaz is listening to and hoping she’ll answer. Truth be told, Yaz has already forgotten what the podcast is even about; the prospect of talking to this woman is far more interesting, and it’s obvious that Remy is keen to strike up conversation, even if they only have a couple more stops before Camden. 

“Podcast,” Yaz replies, absently shoving her phone away in a clear indication that she very much wants to keep talking. She doubts Remy would be interested in what she’s listening to, anyway.

“Love a podcast, me,” Remy enthuses, apparently not put off by the half answer. Yaz can read nothing but sincerity in her tone. “Someone once told me I've got a voice for them, too.”

Yaz thinks: _and a face for all those film posters I have to look at every day_.

Instead, she says: “Do you think southerners would get the accent?”

“Probably not,” Remy grimaces. “That's their problem, though. It’s bad enough at work, I practically had to give them lessons. They’re used to it now.”

“Where _do_ you work?” Yaz asks, emboldened. It doesn’t feel as intrusive to ask if Remy is the one to raise the topic of employment. Yaz is genuinely interested. She wants to know which of her assumptions are correct.

“I help with acquisitions at the Tate Modern.”

Yaz’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline at the name. She’s impressed. Nobody she knows works anywhere remotely prestigious, other than one of her distant cousins who works for an investment bank in Canary Wharf and even then, that’s pushing it. Yaz doesn’t put much stock in bankers. Instead, she pictures Remy at work, and is pleased that at least one of her observations was correct. The other woman is definitely an arty type.

“There are swings in the turbine hall at the moment. They're dead fun,” Remy winks, and Yaz laughs at her silliness. Remy keeps taking her by surprise, but it’s disarming.

“Maybe I'll need to visit,” Yaz offers. 

“You should! I mean, I'm biased but we have a lot of interesting exhibits on. I'm sure I could smuggle you in,” Remy adds, conspiratorially.

Yaz laughs again at the mental image her words conjure up. She wonders, briefly, if this woman really would sneak a stranger into her place of work and within seconds surmises that yes, she would. She gives off that kind of vibe.

“Where do you work?” Remy asks, and Yaz’s laugh dies away. She pulls a face at the thought of her employment.

“I'm on the north side. Embankment. Just an office, nothing nearly as exciting as your job.”

All Yaz knows is that her job pays the bills and that’s as much enthusiasm as she can muster for it. Remy seems to sense this because she graciously moves the conversation onwards instead of asking about it.

“You're not far from me, you know. If you cross over to the south bank it's a nice walk. I do that every day.”

Yaz smiles. She knows that section of the Thames well; she often walks along it on her lunch breaks. She wonders if Remy ever does the same, but it’s far busier than the tube and they’re even less likely to cross paths.

“I love that stretch of the river,” she says. 

“Me too,” Remy nods. “Especially in the winter.” 

Someone in the hen party chooses that moment to start singing loudly and Yaz cringes at the volume as Remy starts to laugh. 

“Last train home is always a riot,” the blonde grins, and Yaz marvels at how she takes it all in her stride. She has an aura about her, despite the odd dress sense; a confidence and an ease that Yaz is drawn to. Making small talk with strangers isn’t something that Yaz does often but talking to Remy is surprisingly easy. Probably because Remy does most of the talking.

“So, what keeps you out this late?” 

“Work drinks,” Yaz replies, thinking of the state she’d left her colleagues in. She makes a mental note to message Martha when she has signal again. “Not that I drink, but...making an effort and all that. You?”

“Late night exhibition.” Remy stifles a yawn at the thought. “Had to network. Which is fine,” she sighs, “but sometimes I really just want to get away from it all. Have a cuppa and stick a film on. Or talk to someone a bit different.”

Yaz doesn't know what to say but it’s hard not to read into the words. She wonders if they’ve been lowkey flirting but the pause is long enough for Remy to waver.

“Anyway, I know the tube is a bit weird and people don't like to talk, I can leave you to it. God knows I've talked enough for this evening and I'm not always the best at reading social cues.” She starts to get up, but Yaz reaches for her without thinking. 

“No, you don't need to go. It's not like I'm doing much.”

Remy offers her a soft smile as she sits back down, and Yaz returns it. Distantly, she wonders where they are but finds she doesn’t care. The windows don’t offer up any clues other than the same darkness as before.

“Did you want to know a random fact about Embankment?” Remy suddenly asks, and Yaz is glad that she’s stayed to talk. The conversation is making her journey home far more enjoyable than it normally is.

“Who wouldn't?”

“Have you ever noticed that the announcement on the northbound platforms is different to all the other stations on the line?”

Yaz frowns and Remy waits patiently for her to give it some thought. 

“Really?” It’s been a while since Yaz has taken the train from a different station other than work or home.

“Yeah. It’s a man’s voice, kind of theatrical. Boomy. It sounds a lot less robotic than that monotone woman.”

With the way Remy describes it, Yaz can almost hear it. It’s funny: she hears that voice every day and yet she’s never thought about who it even belongs to. She muses that sometimes a different perspective is exactly what’s needed to make her appreciate things a little more. 

“They changed it once, and all. Except one day, there was a woman on the platform. She was crying.”

Yaz bites her lip as she waits for Remy to continue. The rowdy hen party finally departs but Yaz pays them no mind.

“She asked the people who worked there where the voice that did the announcements had gone and they told her they’d changed it, updated it to the new voice.”

Yaz nods, unwilling to interrupt. Remy’s face lights up as she continues to speak. She’s a natural storyteller, spinning a yarn out of something that, to all intents and purposes, was fairly mundane: the voice of the tube.

“The old one had been there for 45 years, all the way along the Northern line. They’d replaced it, station by station, thinking nothing of it. Except this woman was distraught. They asked her what was wrong.”

Remy pauses for effect, and to allow the real-life announcement to finish. Neither of them are paying attention to it, both engrossed in the story of a different announcement. 

“And?” Yaz eventually asks. She’s on the edge of her seat, hanging on every word.

“The voice was her husband’s, and he’d died. She sometimes just sat at Embankment to hear him speak again. And then, one day, he’d gone again.”

Yaz realises she’s holding her breath. She desperately tries to recall if she’d heard the voice that evening. She’d been too busy swearing about missing her train. But she’s sure she heard that familiar voice as she boarded the very train she’s currently on. She'd tuned it out, as she did with most things, most days. She had no idea that something so seemingly insignificant had such a story behind it, but now Remy was opening her eyes to it.

“They had to work for it, you know, dig out the old tapes. But they found it again. They put his voice back on just for her.”

“You’re joking,” Yaz breathes. It’s a simple story but the way Remy tells it and the fact that Yaz has heard that voice on her way home every day for the past three years, without even knowing the story behind it, gives her a shiver. The world turns and moves around her and all she can do is hold on.

Remy shakes her head. She’s still smiling but it seems a little melancholy.

“That's a sad story,” Yaz says.

“It is. But it has a happy ending. That's all we can ask for isn't it? Not that I’m a big fan of endings, anyway,” Remy says. She fidgets with the zipper on her bag.

“I feel like you're full of random facts,” Yaz says. She’s not sure why she says it, but the one thing she is certain of is that she wants to keep talking to this woman. She’s fascinating. 

“I probably know a lot of things but nothing of any real consequence,” Remy says wryly.

“I doubt that,” Yaz disagrees. “When you fell asleep on here-”

“Which never happens, by the way,” Remy butts in.

Yaz rolls her eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah. It happens to us all. But I saw your name badge. You're a doctor?”

For the second time that evening, Remy looks a little sheepish. 

“Of fine art, yeah.”

Yaz puffs out her cheeks, impressed. “We definitely move in different circles.”

Remy shrugs it off. 

“I dunno about that,” she disagrees gently. “We both get the same train. We both chose to make London a home. We're both from up north. I reckon we have more in common than you think.”

“Well we both live on the better side of the river,” Yaz agrees, without thinking.

“Controversial! You know where I live?”

Remy’s face is hard to read but Yaz is sure she can read a badly-hidden smirk even as her own face flushes at the slip-up. 

“Well, I've seen you get on at Camden. Most days.”

“You have a good memory, Yaz.”

Yaz nods. “Certain people are just kind of memorable.”

“Let me guess...was it my stunning fashion sense that caught your eye?”

 _Are we flirting?_ Yaz laughs as Remy wiggles her eyebrows and embraces it. What has she got to lose? Sure, they might cross paths on their shared commute but it’s not like they even talk, normally.

“If that’s what you call it. Your trousers, do they ever reach?” 

“Oi!” Remy seems genuinely offended until her mouth gives the game away and she smiles at Yaz’s comeback.

“They look a lot more comfortable than what I have to wear.” Yaz plucks at her polyester shirt. She can’t wait to get out of it, and the heels that are still on her feet. The walk home from the tube station isn’t even that long but she knows it’s going to hurt.

“I think you look nice,” Remy says, her tone neutral. Yaz tries not to read into it and brushes off the compliment but she can feel her ears burning with it and she mulls it over as Remy continues to talk. The train is a lot quieter now, and it rocks them soothingly while they get to know one another that little bit better. 

When Remy asks for two truths and a lie in a bid to learn more about her, Yaz opts to include the fact that she ran away from home as a teenager. Remy doesn't believe her, at first. 

"Seriously?" For the first time all evening, Remy is genuinely shocked. 

"Yeah. Bullies, y'know?" Yaz doesn’t want to say much more than that and she’s not sure why she even brought it up, but Remy is so easy to talk to that the topic doesn’t make her as uncomfortable as it normally does. Still, she’s grateful when Remy doesn’t ask why she was bullied; when she briefly lays a comforting hand on her own and squeezes, Yaz is certain she feels fireworks go off somewhere in her nervous system. 

"I get it," Remy says, her voice soft, and Yaz can sense she means it. The pained look in her face suggests as much. "What brought you back?"

"My sister,” Yaz smiles at the thought of Sonya. “As much as we argue and bicker, I owe her one. Several times over. What about you? If you don’t mind me asking," she hastily amends when she sees something shift behind Remy’s eyes.

Remy doesn't answer directly and it's the first time in their conversation that Yaz feels like she's made her uncomfortable because she pulls her hand back.

"I left home as soon as I could," Remy says. "London was just so big and appealing. It's easy to get lost here. And there's so much to see. It never gets boring," she adds, grinning, although Yaz can still see some sadness lingering. It's intriguing and although the conversation quickly moves onto happier topics, Yaz can't help but think that despite all of the sights of the city, Remy is by far the most interesting thing she's discovered in London so far. The odds of them finding each other are so slim; they’re just two people out of hundreds on this train, passing underground at the tail end of the day in a city of millions. 

The thought of home is what prompts Yaz to finally look up. Her stomach drops when she sees back gardens, houses, streetlights, trees. No more black tunnels. They’re no longer underground, they’re outside, and she scans the scrolling information banner to no avail. Then, the announcement helpfully informs them they’re nearly at Edgware: the end of the line. Which is fine for her - this is her stop - but Remy has missed hers by a long, long way. 

“Oh. Shit.” 

She gasps at the realisation that they’ve been talking intently for the entire journey, which feels like it’s passed in the blink of an eye. Remy doesn’t seem remotely bothered and instead laughs aloud, tilting her head back. It’s a full belly laugh and it’s contagious. They’re still laughing when the train finally slows to a stop and the doors open for the final time.

The announcement - the robotic woman, this time, and Yaz will never think of her the same way - tells them that this is the final station. Admitting defeat, Yaz eases herself back onto her uncomfortable shoes. She grasps the handrail as sensation is restored to her feet, but she can feel Remy standing just behind her, a reassuring presence. 

“Looks like I’ll be taking the scenic route back,” Remy says, and seeing her breath on the air illustrates just how cold it is. Yaz tugs her coat closer around herself as they step onto the platform, feeling the fresh air awaken her. It really is quite cold and late, now, past 1am. She’s shocked at the realisation and no longer anywhere near as tired. The night still feels young.

Remy pulls up her phone and then promptly pulls a face. She scrunches up her nose and Yaz wonders how she can still look so attractive when she makes faces like that. 

“Phone died,” she offers, shoving it back in her pocket. Yaz reaches for hers and realises her podcast has been playing the entire time, unheard, because it’s now on 3% battery.

“Mine is on the way out,” she admits. She knows that as soon as she tries to book an Uber it’ll conk out and leave them even worse off. 

“Phones these days never last more than six hours,” Yaz grumbles. She’s reluctant to move because then that would mean that Remy would have to leave. They linger on the platform like teenage delinquents. “At least my old brick of a Nokia would keep going for a few days.”

“And it probably had Snake,” Remy chips in. She seems genuinely upset that her phone no longer comes with Snake built in.

“There’s probably an app for that,” Yaz points out.

“There's an app for everything. Food, TV, even dates…although I don't think the last one really works.”

“Oh?” Remy is far smoother than Yaz is, but the mention of dating piques her interest. So she just says what she’s thinking, rather than beating around the proverbial bush. “Are you a Tinder fan?” 

Yaz shoves her hands in her pockets or her nervous fidgeting would give the game away. If they weren’t flirting before it certainly feels like they might be, now, and she’s a tad rusty.

“Nah. I don't think I'll find the right person on there,” Remy shrugs. Yaz notices that Remy doesn’t specify a gender. It makes her brave.

“The only messages I get are from creepy men looking for a threesome...even though my profile says I'm only into women,” she admits, waiting for Remy’s response. She gets one in the form of a delighted grin.

“Oh really? Surprised I haven't found you on there yet.”

And yes, they are most definitely flirting. _Take that, Tinder_.

“I thought you weren't a fan?” Yaz points out.

“Alright, Yaz. You got me.” The use of her name sends a thrill up Yaz’s spine. “But the fact remains: I'm sure I'd have swiped left if I’d seen you on there.”

Yaz squints at Remy and waits for her to clock on. It doesn’t take long. 

“Wait. Right. Shit, right. Like I’d swipe left on you,” Remy shakes her head at her bungled attempt at a pick up.

Yaz laughs lightly and it disperses the tension, but now that they’ve acknowledged an attraction, it changes things. 

Unfortunately - or fortunately, as the case may be - the ticket inspector chooses that moment to stroll along the platform and inform them that the station is closing for the night and could they please leave? 

Yaz senses another fork in the road. Her decisions this evening have led her this far and she goes with her gut. What she’s about to suggest is a little nerve-wracking but she throws caution to the wind. It’s been one of those rare nights, a true unexpected delight in amongst the drudgery of her day-to-day life, that it would be foolish to let it end so soon.

Remy starts to speak as they make their way to the exit.

“It’s ok, Yaz. Don’t worry. I can figure out the night buses. It’ll be an adventure!”

But Yaz shakes her head. She’s not letting Remy venture back across London, alone, at that time of night, without a phone, and she says as much. What she doesn’t say is that the thought of Remy leaving gives her a pang.

“Look this might be a bit forward, but did you want to come to mine? Even just to charge your phone for a bit,” she hastily amends when Remy’s eyes widen.

For once, Remy seems to be a little lost for words. Yaz wonders if she’s misstepped. Then a grin brightens her face and Yaz feels a different kind of anxiety flutter to life in her stomach. 

“You wouldn't mind?”

Yaz shakes her head, her mouth suddenly dry. She has no idea what will happen next but she is intrigued. 

“Of course not," she insists. "I wouldn't have offered otherwise.”

“Alright then. On one condition. We get chips on the way.”

Yaz declines Remy’s offer of a piggyback to the kebab shop and they walk slowly, mindful of the pain in her feet. 

“At least let me carry your bag?” Remy offers, ever the gentleman, and Yaz accedes. She doesn’t fail to notice the little puff of pride Remy gets when she shoulders her bag, or how pleasant it is that someone is offering to share her burdens. Life in London is lonely, but it feels a little less lonely, now.

The bright lights of the kebab shop beckon them before too long and Yaz props herself against the wall as Remy places her order. She doesn’t shift when Remy sidles alongside her and they continue chatting while the men behind the counter move like a well-oiled machine; it’s not the busiest Yaz has ever seen it but the pub over the road has just shut and has provided a fresh wave of customers. 

“The flat isn’t far from here,” Yaz assures the other woman as they regard one another in the fluorescent light of the shop. It’s not a flattering light by any means, even worse than the lighting on the tube, but Yaz can see Remy properly in it. She’s as attractive as ever - Yaz thinks it’s a little unfair because she’s almost certain she looks haggard after such a tiring week - but this time she can more clearly see the laughter lines in Remy's face. They suit her. They’re too busy talking that they barely notice when a very drunk woman enters, her makeup smeared everywhere and tottering on heels higher than Yaz’s. The man serving their food has to call for them several times before they cotton on. 

Yaz wrinkles her nose as Remy soaks her chips in vinegar. 

“Are you planning to pickle yourself?” she laughs, and Remy scoffs as she wraps up her precious cargo. They depart and Remy waves goodbye to the man behind the counter. Apparently she’s good at charming everybody she meets.

“There’s an optimum salt:chip:vinegar ratio for everyone,” Remy says seriously, stabbing a chip and eating it. Even the way she eats is attractive and Yaz wonders what’s wrong with her. “This just happens to be mine.”

“No judgment,” Yaz says, holding her hands up. 

“Except there was,” Remy points out. “You really shouldn’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

Her eyebrow is raised in challenge as she stops walking and Yaz realises she’s going to have to eat one before they can keep going. 

“Okay, okay, you win,” Yaz laughs. “But just one.”

Remy stabs at the food and holds a couple aloft for Yaz to try. A bus passes them and it’s still freezing cold, but the moment is oddly romantic as Yaz lets Remy feed her under the orange glow of a streetlight.

Yaz can smell the vinegar before she tastes it but she does as Remy requests and gamely bites down, trying to ignore the way Remy is watching her. The explosion of flavour is a bit too intense and she screws her eyes shut..

“Nope, way too much vinegar,” she coughs. Remy shrugs, then eats some more. Yaz has no idea how she can stand it. 

“Maybe I just have a refined palate.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever agree on this,” Yaz says, and then she realises what she’s implied. It’s bold of her to assume they’ll even do this again, but Remy doesn’t seem to mind and instead continues to hum happily as she eats. 

“Just means there are more chips for me,” she says agreeably, and Yaz is startled to realise that she’s almost finished eating by the time they reach her flat. 

“This is me,” she mutters, fishing for her keys and wondering what state her sister has left their flat in. 

“So...anyone else home?” Remy asks as they walk up the stairs. The question is innocent enough, but Yaz is incredibly grateful that Sonya is actually away for once. She could do without her sister’s interference and knowing they have the flat to themselves gives Yaz the freedom to contemplate certain things that she wouldn’t if her sister was at home.

“Nope. I live with my sister but she's away for the weekend.” Yaz opens the front door to the flat and grimaces at the mess. Not that it’s that untidy, really...she just wishes her sister would put away her laundry. Then again, it’s not like Yaz often brings guests home.

“And as usual, she’s left a mess behind her. Would you mind if we hung out in my room?” Yaz asks, embarrassed. “I know it’s a bit lame.” She finally kicks off her heels and sighs in relief as she leaves them by the front door.

“Not lame at all, Yaz. When I first moved here it was into a house of seven other people. It was chaotic to say the least.”

“Ooh,” Yaz grimaces sympathetically. She can’t imagine living with that many people but she can somehow imagine Remy getting on with it just fine. She’s definitely a people person. 

“Back when I was a student,” Remy continues. “That was a bit of a while ago now.” 

Yaz briefly wonders just how old she is. There is clearly an age gap but it doesn’t seem significant enough to worry about. Instead, she imagines Remy as a rebel. She can picture it clearly.

“Oh yeah? I can totally see you as a troublemaker.”

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Remy toes off her boots and Yaz is unsurprised to see that she wears stripey socks. She hadn’t expected anything different and she wonders why she thinks that. 

“It's a vibe I get from you,” Yaz admits as she turns on some fairy lights, casting just enough of a glow for them to navigate around the furniture in her bedroom. “I reckon you’re always getting involved in things. But it's strange. I feel like I know you, somehow, even though I don't.”

Yaz gestures to the bed just so they can sit down and stop standing around so awkwardly. They perch on the edge of it but then Remy brings up one of her legs and sits on it and they both nudge knees as they make themselves comfortable, and they don’t move away. 

It’s clear that they’re going to be talking for a while longer and Yaz watches Remy as her eyes adjust to the darkness. The slats of the blinds are still open, letting in a slight orange haze from the streetlight right outside. 

“You kind of do know me, though,” Remy replies. “At least a little. You know where I live. What I do. How I like my chips.”

“Yeah, with enough vinegar to pickle your stomach.”

Remy rolls her eyes with good humour.

“But isn't that enough to make a decision about someone? First impressions are usually pretty accurate.”

Yaz shrugs. Remy has a point, but there’s something else. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. It’s reached the time of night - and what an unexpected surprise tonight has been - that Yaz starts to wax philosophical. All that time on the tube gives her plenty of time to think about the universe and her part in it, and nights like tonight make her reconsider just what it has in store for her. 

“I suppose. But it's more than that,” she gushes, trying to get her point across. “I feel like we've met before. Maybe in a parallel universe.”

Remy freezes for a second. 

“Are you sure you didn't have anything to drink?

On instinct, Yaz leans over and shoves her, gently. 

“You're a knob.”

“That I am,” Remy laughs, propping herself back up to remove her coat. Yaz does the same. The flat isn’t too cold but there’s a bit of a chill that suggests nobody has been home for several hours and Yaz knows she’ll want to get between the covers before too long. She’s just not entirely sure what will happen, then. She knows what she _wants_ to happen but the fact remains that she still has an almost stranger in her bedroom and the night could still go down several different paths.

“I think I know what you mean, though,” Remy concedes as she folds her coat carefully. “I'm a big believer in parallel universes...all sorts of things. Like, we're not alone in the universe..we can't be! There are definitely aliens out there! It's too big.”

Yaz nods, swept up by her enthusiasm. “And we're so small…”

“That got deep," Remy deadpans and Yaz wonders if she is looking for another shove. She resists temptation, as much as she'd like to touch Remy again. 

“It's the time of day to get philosophical. Do you ever feel that way, though? Like you’re kind of...inconsequential?” Yaz shrugs, wondering if she’s been too honest. Remy hones in on it instantly. 

“Yasmin Khan, you are not inconsequential. Far from it. We couldn't have a universe with no Yaz!" She's emphatic. "Just imagine what would have happened if you'd not been there tonight. I would have ended up walking home or something. Or sleeping on a park bench.”

Yaz shudders at the thought. “Please don't do that, it's dangerous.”

“I eat danger for breakfast,” Remy proffers, but Yaz raises an eyebrow. She doesn't believe that for a second and Remy deflates when she realises that Yaz can see through it.

“Okay, maybe not,” she concedes. “London is very different to home, isn't it? But talking of breakfast, I do love a pastel de nata.”

Yaz feels her heart leap into her throat.

“Are you placing an order already?” She’s proud to note that her voice stays level, no tell-tale tremble in evidence.

“For the morning? It depends if you'd like me to stay.” Remy easily lobs the ball back into her court. 

Yaz swallows hard, and nods.

“I would. Yeah.” 

Remy shifts closer and Yaz tries to control her breathing. 

“Did you want me to crash on the couch, or…”

Yaz shakes her head. She doesn’t trust her voice. When Remy leans in closer, she’s practically whispering. 

“...in the bed? With you?”

Yaz nods. 

“I was kind of hoping you’d say that,” Remy admits. But then she’s pulling away, and Yaz reaches for her without thinking. 

“Where are you going?” she asks. She's finally got Remy in bed and the last thing she wants is for her to leave. 

“Thought you might want me to brush my teeth. Or use some mouthwash, or something, I don’t want to be presumptuous. You know, all that vinegar might put you off.”

She doesn’t need to say exactly what she’s worried about putting Yaz off because it’s obvious. At some point in this evening they crossed a line and as far as Yaz is concerned, there’s no going back, simply because she doesn’t want to. Despite her apparent abundance of self-confidence, it’s not the first time that Remy has second-guessed herself this evening and Yaz knows she needs to step in to stop her overthinking things. 

“Absolutely nothing would put me off right now,” Yaz admits, and Remy laughs lightly. 

“Nothing?” she asks, and Yaz just knows she’s about to go off on a tangent.

“Yep. So shut up and kiss me,” she says, reaching for Remy’s braces and pulling her close, moulding their lips together. They fit, and she feels Remy grin against her mouth in approval. Yaz can taste the subtle tang of salt and vinegar on Remy's lips, which are soft and warm, but her nose is cold as it nudges Yaz's when she moves to deepen the kiss, opening her mouth and waiting patiently for Yaz to follow suit. She breathes harshly through her nose when she's finally granted entry and Yaz runs her hand through short blonde hair as she feels Remy's tongue stroke against her own, slow and steady. 

As first kisses go it's pretty good. It's also heavy and tinged with lust but Yaz isn't going to slow down and neither, it seems, is Remy, who guides her to lie flat on the mattress even as she's depriving her of oxygen. Yaz can hear her own harsh breaths in the quiet of the flat but she soon forgets them when she feels the other woman guide her legs apart just wide enough to make room for her torso to lie solidly between them. Her skirt is getting in the way, though, and Yaz knows it will need to come off before long if things go the way she hopes. The thought sends a trickle of excitement through her.

"This ok?" Remy asks and Yaz nods enthusiastically, still catching her breath. She almost stops breathing when nimble fingers tug on her shirt, pulling it from the waistband of her skirt. Remy wants to undress her. Yaz reminds herself to breathe. 

She tries to help Remy unbutton the damned thing because their fingers are still slightly numb from the cold, but when she fumbles with a particularly stubborn button, Remy clasps her chilled hand within her own. 

"Let me."

There's a question in there but the way Remy says it makes it seem like she'll be calling the shots and Yaz is more than willing to submit. It's thrilling, having a strange woman in her bed - a strange, beautiful woman - having her way with her. 

When the material falls away and Yaz shrugs it off fully, leaving her in her bra, Remy traces the curve of a lace-clad breast with her finger. 

"You're a work of art," she breathes and Yaz knows she means it because the look on her face is deadly serious. Nerves and arousal battle for dominance even while her mouth opens and comes out with the worst pick-up line she's ever used. She realises midway through but then it's too late and she keeps going, finishing lamely.

"Did you want to...acquire me?"

Remy laughs in surprise at the cheesy line and Yaz groans in embarrassment but then Remy is tugging at her skirt. It's a little awkward given how tight the material is and soon Yaz is huffing in frustration. 

"Hang on," Remy says, and then she simply pushes the material up so that it's out of the way, at least. She's apparently impatient but Yaz doesn't blame her because right now her clothes are an obstacle and she wants them gone. Still, Yaz feels a little silly when she realises how half-dressed she is but not as silly as when she remembers what underwear she's wearing.

Remy runs her finger under the elastic.

"Cats? I feel like there's an obvious joke here." 

Yaz is mortified as she recalls the little cat faces printed on her pants.

"Oh, god. I didn't think anyone would be seeing those."

"Want me to get rid of them?"

"Please," Yaz gasps.

"Up."

It's the only word Remy says. Yaz obliges and lifts her hips, trying not to flinch at the feel of cool hands on her warm thighs. The final barrier is stripped away and, suddenly awkward, she wants to comment on Remy's bossiness but the words get stuck in her throat when she sees the way the other woman is looking at her as she's bared to her gaze. 

"I don't normally do this," Yaz murmurs. She decides to remove her bra to balance things out a little, although to her dismay Remy is still dressed. They'll fix that later, hopefully, because nothing about this is planned; they're winging it.

Remy pauses at the admission.

"What, like..sex?" She removes her hands and Yaz mourns their loss instantly.

"Sex with strangers."

Remy tilts her head. 

"What happened to the whole 'we've met before' thing?"

"Ok, then. One night stands." Yaz can't quite figure out if that is what this is but the label is the closest she can get to fit. 

Remy seems a little hurt by her description and Yaz wonders if she's read things wrongly, but Remy shuts her up before she can try and undo the damage by sliding back between her thighs and settling on her stomach between them.

"I think we've done enough talking for one evening."

Yaz nods. She certainly has, judging by the way she's stopped thinking before opening her mouth.

She wants to watch but when she feels Remy lifting her thigh over her shoulder it hits her and she fists the sheets in anticipation. It almost doesn't feel real but then careful hands are skimming across her stomach and she wonders if she should have worn something sexier, or shaved her legs above the knee, or-

"Stop thinking, Yaz. I can hear you from down here."

Yaz watches as Remy smoothes her hands up her legs, apparently pleased with what she's feeling. She looks relaxed and at home between her legs. It doesn't feel awkward at all, it feels inevitable and Yaz sighs, shifts her hips in a silent signal to get a move on.

"How do you always know what to say?"

Remy smirks and it shouldn't be hot but now she's between Yaz's legs and somehow it seems appropriate. All evening she's said just the right thing to get in her pants and now she's claiming her prize. 

"Psychic."

She kisses the inside of Yaz's thigh.

"Seriously though…"

Another kiss, just north of the last. 

"What you said before?"

The next kiss drifts even higher and Yaz can feel Remy's hair tickling the skin inside her thigh. She squirms a little; it's been a while since anyone else has been down there. 

"What you said about us knowing each other…"

Remy kisses even higher up her thigh and it's driving Yaz mad because she's not going where she needs her.

"What happened to 'we've done enough talking'?" Yaz sighs, trying to stop her leg from trembling.

"Thought you might like to know that I get it. I feel the same."

The smirk is gone, the confident facade replaced with an honest expression. Well, what Yaz can see of it anyway - mostly just Remy's eyes because her mouth is hidden just out of sight. Yaz supposes there's no point in pretending when you're about to eat someone out. 

Yaz is saved from having to answer when Remy licks the length of her, drawing an end to that topic of conversation, and Yaz arches off the bed with a happy sigh. _Finally_. 

She wonders what would have happened if she'd got an earlier train. Three minutes is all that got them here. She wonders how long it will take her to come, given the way Remy is getting straight to business. She's not sure she'll even last three minutes. 

Remy is confident, not to mention skilled, and it's a turn on. The whole evening until now has felt like foreplay, Yaz realises, as she's brought near the edge so fast it makes her head spin. She tries to stop herself making embarrassing noises but then remembers they have the flat to themselves, which is a Good Thing because Remy is making all sorts of noises, too, and at first Yaz is embarrassed by how wet she is but when it becomes clear that Remy is thoroughly enjoying herself, Yaz lets herself go. 

Yaz feels a shiver of excitement at the thought that she has a stranger in her bed and she grinds against Remy's mouth with abandon, encouraged by the hand wrapped around her backside. She swears, she’s sure she does, and she makes sounds she didn’t know she was capable of making as Remy’s tongue triggers wave after wave of euphoria. When she feels fingers she nods and the moment they're inside, Remy does something clever, something magical that pushes Yaz over. 

The fingers inside her curl and press and Yaz clamps her thighs around Remy's head as she cries out, loudly, wondering if Remy really is psychic because she knows just how long to draw it out and when to stop.

Remy pulls away to clamber back up, brushing lazy, wet kisses against her heaving chest before she brings their mouths together. Yaz sighs as they kiss. She can taste herself on Remy's lips and it's addictive. She's surprised that Remy even went down on her because it seems a little affectionate for a one night stand.

"That was quick. Was I that good?"

"Stop being such a smug bastard." 

The familiar to-and-fro cuts through any potential tension and Yaz realises that she no longer feels any anxiety at all. Remy is easy to be around. It really should be awkward, first times always are. But Remy is full of surprises. Yaz wants to unwrap them all like the gifts they are.

"I want to get to know you better," she says, pushing herself up on wobbly arms. She’s still trembling slightly but she wants to touch Remy so badly that it aches. Remy curls a cautious arm around her waist, supporting her. 

"What do you want to know?"

_I want to see you naked. I want to know how you look when you come. I want to know what you're scared of. I want to know what makes you happy._

There is so much that Yaz wants to know that she can't begin to choose. The first options that come to mind are the easiest to deal with. She can do something about those.

"Everything," she shrugs. It's probably a little too honest, in retrospect, but it doesn't bother Remy, who pushes herself up and reaches for the hems of her shirts. Her braces have fallen from her slim shoulders already, and Yaz thinks she looks even more charming when she's slightly dishevelled. She reaches out to tuck some hair behind Remy's ear and somehow it feels far more intimate than what she is about to do; Remy tips her cheek into the touch and Yaz lingers, feeling the bone under her thumb.

Between them, it doesn't take long to remove the rest of her clothes. They don't speak but Yaz giggles when she finally removes the damned skirt from around her own waist and then they're both as naked as one another. Remy shivers and Yaz scoops the duvet up, draping it over their bare skin. She's sure they'll work up a sweat but it makes her feel safe, like they've carved out their own little niche in her bed while the city sleeps around them.

Only the distant, sporadic sound of the night's traffic is there to remind them that the world is still turning, still moving without them while they absorb themselves in one another. 

And Yaz wants to lose herself in Remy entirely. She takes them both by surprise when she pins Remy's wrists to the bed and looks at where their skin is pressed together as she stretches out on top of her. It feels nice, particularly where the softness of Remy’s breasts is pressed against her own.

"You don't have to," Remy says, and Yaz looks at her like she's mad.

"I want to. Trust me."

But Remy still seems a little nervous. It's at odds with how confident she was just moments before. 

"Unless you don't want me to?" 

Remy shakes her head avidly. 

"Oh no, I do. A lot. So much, actually."

She looks up at Yaz, clearly aroused, and it gives Yaz the boost she needs to take control. When she dips her head to kiss Remy, she feels the tension in her body start to ease a little as she relaxes into the mattress. The kissing is just as good as it was earlier and Yaz gets swept up in it just as quickly but she tears her lips away, breathless. 

"Then let me look after you."

Her choice of words seems to reassure Remy and she licks her lips, eyes wide as Yaz lets go of her wrists to map the shape of her torso. 

She could already tell that Remy was slim with her clothes on, but she wasn't prepared for the subtle definition she can feel under her fingertips as she skims her hands up the sides of Remy's stomach. Remy bites back a moan when Yaz reaches her breasts, her touch tender as she cups them with her hands, thumbs brushing over her nipples. Yaz grows more confident as Remy responds, arching her back as Yaz resumes kissing her.

Yaz wishes she could record the sounds Remy makes for posterity but she can't, so she does the next best thing - she repeats the motion, tweaking her nipples to see if she likes it and smiling against her lips when Remy groans even louder.

Any pithy comment she might make dies on her tongue when she pulls away to see the desperation in Remy's eyes. Yaz wonders if it's been a while for her, too. Or if she is also finding this whole thing a little more….amplified than usual.

There's only one way to find out and Yaz lets her hand drift south. 

“Please, Yaz,” Remy sighs. “You need to touch me.”

It would be rude not to when Remy asks so nicely and Yaz does, sighing when she feels slick heat at her fingertips. They slide through it easily but she knows when she’s hit the jackpot because Remy’s hand clamps onto her arm when she finds her clit.

She circles it carefully, applying just enough pressure to make Remy’s sighs and moans become increasingly needy. Yaz thrives on the sounds and she delights in the filthy noise that Remy makes when she slips inside. 

“Fucking hell,” Remy groans after a moment. “More, please.”

“More what?” Yaz asks, teasing as she starts to move her fingers. Remy’s hand tenses with each thrust and Yaz watches her face for signs of discomfort, finding none. Satisfied, she shifts so that she can latch onto the pale column of her neck with her mouth. As much as she wants to watch Remy’s face, it’s probably a little intense given the circumstances. 

“Harder,” Remy cries, and Yaz is so glad that they’re alone. There’s no way to hide what they’re doing and Remy is so loud that she’s almost certain her upstairs neighbours heard that. But instead of worrying, Yaz does her best to make her even louder. She doesn’t care. All she cares about is being a considerate lover because if she only has one shot at this, she wants to make it a good one. 

The hand on her arm is gripping her almost painfully now but Yaz is encouraged by it, using her leg to provide a little extra momentum. She can feel Remy tightening around her and she fails to mask a moan of her own as their skin starts to glide together. She’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat; Remy is burning up underneath her but the heat just seems to magnify things and Yaz gasps for air as the exertion starts to take its toll. She gives it her all, and it shows because Remy’s eyes practically roll back in her head as she comes around her fingers with a shout. She freezes for several long seconds, not even breathing, and Yaz subconsciously holds her breath. It means that when Remy finally collapses back onto the sheets, they’re both slightly sweaty, breathless messes. 

Yaz removes her fingers and, for lack of anything better to do, wipes them on the sheets. She doesn’t want to miss a moment and she definitely doesn’t want to leave the bed just yet. 

A quick glimpse at the alarm clock on the bedside table informs her it’s almost 3am. She hopes that means Remy will stay for a little longer, and she lies on her side, letting the air of the room cool her overheated skin as Remy recovers her senses. 

“Christ on a bike,” she eventually says, and Yaz giggles. She’s never been drunk, but she imagines it feels a little like this.

Remy blinks at her and the grin she shoots her is enough to make Yaz’s chest feel warm.

“You almost killed me,” she breathes. “Gold star for you.”

“You strike me as more of a points person,” Yaz comments, reaching for the duvet again when she sees Remy break out in goosebumps. “Although I don’t know if you should go around rewarding people for snuffing you out.”

“In the best kind of way,” Remy corrects her, and then she’s reaching for the back of Yaz’s neck and pulling her in for a kiss. Yaz sighs into it, pulling the duvet around them and boldly sliding her leg between Remy’s when Remy tugs her even closer. It’s nice. 

At some point a bus trundles past outside and then Remy lifts her head to squint at the clock. 

“Don’t think I’ve been up this late in years,” she says, and then almost instantly she yawns. 

“Was it worth it?” Yaz asks. She’s fishing for compliments, she knows she is, but she still can’t quite believe how the night has turned out. She wants to keep talking because she’s not ready for it to end, even as her own eyes start to droop. Her head is pillowed on Remy’s shoulder and she should move it. Really, she should go and brush her teeth and at least put on some pyjamas but she finds she doesn’t want to move a muscle. 

The gentle rise and fall of Remy’s chest lulls her into a doze and she doesn’t hear Remy’s reply. Later, she has no idea when, Yaz hears someone calling her name. 

“Yaz?”

Remy’s voice is low and Yaz is on the brink of a deep sleep when she hears it. 

“Mm?”

“Thinking about what you said. How we’re so small in the universe.”

“Mm.” Try as she might, the warmth and the comfort of another body in her bed is making it very difficult for Yaz to stay awake, despite her best efforts. A hand gently combs through her hair and it’s almost like Remy knows the most efficient ways of sending her to sleep. Once again, Yaz wonders if she can read minds.

“We come from the same part of the country but it took us moving to a city of nearly 9 million people to meet on the tube of all things. Isn't that funny?”

Although her point is a valid one, it’s a tricky concept to digest at this time of day. Still, Yaz makes an effort to rouse herself and thinks about all the decisions they’ve made that led them both to this point in time. Little nudges from the universe. They get the same train most days, out of routine. But circumstance led them here. Would she have invited Remy back if her sister was at home? 

“Do you believe in all that? Fate?” Yaz asks. She has no idea what time it is now, because it’s lost all sense of meaning; she wonders if she’s even truly awake because the conversation has an ethereal quality to it. But the birds are starting to stir outside, and the sun will follow, eventually, and those are very tangible things that Yaz can grasp. Still, they have a little longer until the next day dawns fully; until Remy leaves. Yaz wonders if Remy will be there when she wakes up because she doesn’t seem to be sleeping. Perhaps she’s waiting for Yaz to nod off before she departs. 

“I like to think I’m in control,” she eventually says, and Yaz wonders if that was why she seemed so hesitant for Yaz to return the favour, earlier. Then she wonders if she’s drooling on Remy's bare shoulder. She’s so content, drifting, that she doesn’t answer Remy’s next question. 

“Do you think this would happen in the other universes?”

All Yaz knows is that she is very happy to be in this one, right now.

She’s out like a light after that; dead to the world. A car horn is what wakes her the next morning, rude and abrupt as it cuts through pleasant dreams. Yaz blinks blearily, adjusting to the bright daylight streaming in through the windows.

She’s alone. 

Yaz’s heart sinks almost instantly as she realises the sheets next to her aren’t even warm. She had been worried this might happen; a quick glance around the room confirms that Remy’s clothes are gone, too. 

It feels like some kind of dream but when Yaz shoves the duvet aside to see that she is a) still naked and b) has a hickey on her thigh, she knows it was real. It felt too good to be a dream, except in the cold light of day Yaz wonders if she’s made a huge mistake by inviting Remy into her bed. She doesn’t think she’s cut out for a no-strings deal, but hadn’t she been the one to suggest it was a one-off? 

Yaz groans, her head in her hands as she remembered the words and the look on Remy’s face when she’d said them. 

She feels foolish. It had been a fleeting moment, a flash in the pan. And she’d bared herself, in more ways than one, to a complete stranger. Yaz feels her thoughts start to spiral. At least she didn’t have much planned for the day because with the way she currently feels, the only thing Yaz wants to do now is wallow.

They hadn’t even swapped numbers. Yaz wonders how awkward things will be when they next see each other on the tube. But that’s a problem for Monday morning Yaz, not Saturday morning Yaz, who is currently feeling tired and shitty. 

Her self-pity is cut short when the front door closes. 

Yaz frowns, pulling the sheets around herself as she looks for where she might have abandoned some pyjamas on the floor. Whoever has just entered the flat clearly has keys and that could only be one person.

“Sonya?” she calls out. She’s surprised her sister has returned early and that suggests that things didn’t go well with her boyfriend. Yaz steels herself for the conversation that is bound to ensue. She’s not sure she has the mental energy for it today, of all days.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and then Remy pokes her head around the bedroom door. Yaz is so surprised to see her that she feels her mouth open in shock. Something blossoms inside her chest and it makes her eyes water.

She hopes Remy doesn’t notice her reaction but the tilt of her head and the softening of her gaze telegraph that she does. 

“Sorry, Yaz. I couldn't find the shop for ages.” She scrunches up her nose and once again Yaz wonders how she can look so attractive when she pulls such silly faces. Her cheeks are pink with cold and Yaz wants to warm them with her hands. “Phone was still dead, given that we...well...forgot to charge them.”

Yaz feels a blush creep up from her chest to the tips of her ears at the memory. She hadn’t dreamt it at all. 

“You were out of milk so I got some more,” Remy continues, holding up Yaz’s keys to illustrate how she managed to get back into the building. In her other hand dangles a carton of milk. “Fancy a cuppa?”

It’s the best cup of tea Yaz has ever tasted.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me on Twitter @_mag_lex.
> 
> My fics are now on WordPress at maglexfic.wordpress.com. You should be able to subscribe there to all my new ones, since I won't be posting any new fics to Ao3 for the foreseeable future :)


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